SHINee Duets 2015: hyeongsoap & quagmireisadora
Title:원숭이
Authors: hyeongsoap & quagmireisadora
Pairing: none
Rating: R
Warnings: suicide; graphic descriptions of suicide
Authors’ Notes: hyeongsoap- so i was asked to add some deep thoughts to the story. something deep and thoughtful would fit, wouldn't it? well here you have it, i think quagmireisadora is wonderful and gorgeous and wonderful and gorgeous people deserve pleasant weather, hot chocolate, lovely smiles and soft hugs.
quagmireisadora- this is a beautiful way for losers like me to meet new people but I am glad that I ended up with Soapy. We share a mental intimacy. Here's to 2020 Istanbul~
The sea is a constant roar of waves.
He keeps count of the number of times his foot crunches on sand and it feels like a crab has been crushed under his weight. He winces to each silent climb of the number--the world doesn't need any more death.
"Choi," Detective Lieutenant Lee Taemin's voice is clear of all emotion. He's always like that, on the job or off it. He's young: probably even younger than Minho himself. But his face is more lined than that of a man in his thirties. There are jokes flying around the office that the sleepless man probably bleeds decaf latte. Minho has always recanted opportunities to involve himself in such gossip. Tonight, however, Taemin looks even more stressed than usual, and it could have something to do with the two dark lumps lying sprawled at his feet.
By the light of three mercury LED torches he notices his superior beckon him forward. Minho rushes, forgetting the count in the back of his head.
"Two more. Double suicide means they must be lovers, but of course we can’t assume things,” there is the hint of a frustrated growl in the man’s voice. “Do your thing," Taemin orders.
Minho wastes no time in pulling out his bag of tools and flicking on a torch of his own. With a few minutes of investigation, and a silent prayer for the souls of the departed, he has no choice but to affirm what the detective already proclaimed. There is no surprise among the policemen. They don’t even groan about it anymore. Most of their cases are solved this way now. Educated guesswork is all it takes for them to get to the same conclusion every single time:
“Shot each other in the head, sir,” the report is unnecessary, really. But Minho still gives it. Just to make it official. “It was point blank, no chance of survival.”
“Let’s go home,” Taemin suggests without a glance over the shoulder. And just like that, the case is closed.
------
Going home is always the best.
Something smells delicious, like breakfast and packed lunches. He tiredly waddles into the living room and looks at the time, groaning as his body sinks into sofa cushions. The sun is up and the plants in their balcony are glistening with dew. Somewhere in the house, a shower is running and a child is yelling out the Keroro theme song. Minho grins--the kids are awake.
“Oh, you’re back?” Gwiboon calls to him from the kitchen.
He hums loudly in answer. Just the sound of her voice is enough to smooth out his tense muscles. She walks into sight, wiping her hands on an apron and reaching out to take hold of his cheeks. The bend forward and the peck to his lips is quick, but he appreciates it just the same. “I thought you’d--eugh you stink of seaweed!” she exclaims, making a fleetingly disgusted face. “I thought you’d woken up for something to drink but you were still gone in the morning. Another case?”
He nods in a childish way, pouting for effect. Gwiboon grins at him and coos affectionately. She sits on the armrest and strokes his head with affection. “Your hair’s going white from stress,” she notes before giving him a kiss on the temples. “At this rate you’ll be looking like a grandpa by forty… I don’t think I can stay married to an old man, you know?” she teases.
Minho whines and hides into the crook of her shoulder. Going home is the best because it isn’t touched by the horrors of the outside world. It’s still a lively, happy, safe place. It’s still brimming with goodness. He has seen the police tape criss-crossed outside cosy-looking homes--he’s been inside some, in fact. He’s seen what’s become of other families around the city. And though he doesn’t share it with his wife, perhaps she senses how it has shaken him up.
Gwiboon holds him in her arms for longer than usual.
------
Something has taken hold of the public’s minds.
The most basic forensic studies have yielded nothing that points to a biological defect. But that could only mean the problem is psychological. It could only mean that some kind of psychological leech is sucking out people’s will to live... Susceptibility has been thrown out the window and all epidemiological predictions have lost meaning. Old women and men who’ve led wholesome lives are stepping off building ledges. Young children who’ve barely seen anything of life are falling into depression. Mothers, sisters, uncles, cousins--everyone is dying. Of their own volition.
Minho carefully studies the graph even though the rise in figures is clearly apparent from many feet away--the number of suicides in this city is escalating too far, too rapidly.
He means to sit down with Taemin and talk about an in-depth autopsy. Perhaps citizens could be asked to volunteer as test subjects. Perhaps a small board of psychoanalysts could participate in the process and ask the right questions, prod the right nerves. He wants to get to the bottom of this issue and he wants the department’s support.
But he’s not sure how to start, or what words to use.
That is, until one of the officers shoots himself while on duty. One of the technicians from the third floor finds him in the elevator and calls it in. When Minho rushes over with the hope that he can still save a life, he ends up slipping in a pool of blood. Lieutenant Taemin snaps at him to stop getting in the way. A week of futile internal investigation follows, just out of courtesy to the fallen officer. But the outcome is the same as always. The family of the deceased is notified and a badge and holster are returned. The gun is sent to evidence.
“Sir, we need to talk about this,” Minho shakes his head one afternoon, standing in the middle of Taemin’s office. “We really need to talk about this. Whatever it is. It’s taking a toll on the whole nation.”
“Our job isn’t to keep civilians safe from themselves, Choi,” the man informs. A large pile of paperwork teeters on his desk. “We aren’t therapists to wait on the public and ask them how they feel about things.”
“Sir, what if…” Minho proposes. “What if this is being caused by external factors?”
“What do you mean?” A pair of hawk-like sharp eyes finally deigns it important to pay attention. “External factors like a... like a failed relationship?” Taemin scoffs. “My husband left me, my debt can’t be repaid, my farmland has gone barren, my relatives took the inheritance. This is the kind of shit we’ll be digging up. Are we supposed to cushion everyone’s fall, now?”
“Sir, there are too many victims for us to remain calm.”
------
The first victim had surfaced late in July.
It was a monsoon midnight. Minho still remembers the humidity, the temperature, the sound of police sirens and chattering paramedics. All the usual troops had gathered in what Taemin repeatedly refers to as the “ass end” of Seoul. Minho isn’t one to use such crass language. But from the amount of time and traffic he’d manoeuvred through to get there, he’d found himself silently agreeing.
The apartment block was, and still is, nothing more than a crude rectangular box with cardboard partitions to separate residents. The absolute scum of the city thrive there--on crime, on drugs, on the other side of the law. It’s widely accepted as the garbage disposal of humanity, the very last dregs of an old and rotting empire built on the backs of less fortunate souls. Every second man there is a junkie, every third woman a hooker. The place stinks of piss and infection.
Minho had cautiously tip-toed his way out of his car and into the building.
“Don’t take your sweet time, Choi, this isn’t ballet class. Hurry the fuck up,” Taemin’s growl had just started to dissolve into its current blasé drawl. Seeing death around you all day, every day, all the time has to get to you one way or another. Perhaps, Minho assumes, one way of coping is by erecting fifty metre high walls around yourself. Like the Lieutenant.
Minho hadn’t offered any excuses. The case was more important. He’d set up shop in a corner of the dingy room, firmly holding a handkerchief to his nose as he walked through the crime scene for the first time. “Female, name and age unknown, approximately thirty-four years old and living alone,” one of the policeman informed him. Blunt force, corner of that coffee table, possibly a knife or equally sharp object involved, he’d recited in his mind as his gaze roved along each and every bloodied surface.
When he stopped to take a look at the body he frowned. “No signs of struggle, sir.”
“Hmm,” Taemin had nodded enthusiastically, as if he’d come to the same conclusion minutes ago. They’d crouched together near the pool of blood soaking through lousy floorboards. “And when does something like that happen?”
When asked a question like that, Minho always makes a show of thinking for a minute. He doesn’t want his superior to get the impression that a mere forensic specialist is way ahead of him in the game. A man like Taemin? It’d definitely hurt his ego. “When the perp is someone the victim knows. But, sir…”
“Yes, exactly, but,” the other wagged his finger.
“Once the attack started, the vic would’ve at least put up some kind of fight in defence?” Minho had reasoned, pointing to a stained wall. “Like that particular splatter pattern suggests there was no struggle. At all! Right until the end! As if the woman wanted to be attacked. As if she was fine with being hit over the head till her skull caved in. How is that even… possible?”
------
The struggle exists. Only between political parties.
No matter how bad things get, no matter how many bodies fall, the opposition is hell-bent on reducing everything to a simple power struggle. “Clearly, external powers are responsible for these horrendous acts. And the fact that the current administration won’t lift a finger only proves that they are in cahoots!” the television sets proclaim in unison. These hollow complaints are usually followed by images of lost eyes, soundless mouths, unspoken mourns. They live within LED screens for now but they’ll be walking out aimlessly into the streets within no time. A fragile bubble of safety the secret police investigations have been trying to maintain is about to burst.
Minho and Gwiboon sit in the electronics store with their backs to rows and columns of speakers and remotes. The kids run to and fro playing on game console demos. They are supposed to be on a weekend vacation-away from work and stress. They are supposed to be building their own fifty meter walls for self-defence. And to an extent it works, as the rest of the world falls out of hope, out of grace; as everyone else falls hard, fast, till they hit the ground and burst into a thousand pieces that won’t regenerate to any form of life… Minho and his family are in their own sanctuary.
But the impression of blotting ink on case reports continues to flash before his eyes. He blinks it away repeatedly, and it resumes its violation of his mind repeatedly. From the several sleepless hours he has spent in the office he knows that this isn’t like a biological pandemic, easy to cure and contain. Germs can be killed, viruses can be fought. Medicines and antibiotics can break the spell of sickness. Yet, no one is immune to the mind.
Two days ago a train left Seoul station at four in the afternoon, only to be found eight hours later, derailed near the east coast, just near Ulsan. Many were killed, many more injured lethally, and the rest were lost without a trace. Nobody knows what happened, and the one woman with any semblance of sanity was promptly brought in for questioning. But there hadn’t been any traces of panic in her features. “I woke up at night time. There were bodies everywhere. Some of them were waking up, like they’d just been sleeping on the ground. No one was screaming. It didn’t… didn’t make sense.” Minho had considered reaching out for her hand but she hadn’t seemed to need consolations.
“They got up and walked away. As if nothing had happened and they were perfectly alright.”
Minho likes to think he is privy to all the exclusive exits out of this situation, all clearly marked with rationality. If the noose ever starts to tighten around his own neck, he likes to think that with a single blink he will find his sagacity and make his way back into the safe arms of Gwiboon while the kids run and laugh animatedly. He can go back to his reinforced asylum if things really slip off to the unconceivable. But he knows that dreaming of rainbows in the darkness leads nowhere.
Humankind will wipe itself clean off the face of this planet, spraying it with insecticide for good measure.
------
The face of this planet is changing. Humankind is slowly but surely fading into small pockets of stragglers who still contemplate poison against pistol. It is being CNNed and NPRed and BBCed. Time ticks away in Minho’s watch and so does the will to live in the people around him. Within a month the forensics department has shrunk to the size of two handfuls of barely-there human lives. Soon they will also disappear, leaving only one man behind.
He looks in the direction of Taemin’s office. The blinds are drawn. Any and all conversations have already come to a full stop with that sign of reticence.
He looks at faces that have lost sons, daughters, mothers, wives. He looks at faces that have given up. And he tries his hardest to sit them down and think with some clarity. Minho gives it his all to talk sense into anyone willing to listen and accept his advice. But it feels counter-productive every time he has to visit a crime site, only to find another familiar face with its stomach ripped open or lying in a pool of its own vomit. These faces and their ends are branded into the backs of his eyelids because he very nearly blames himself for every death. I didn’t try hard enough, I didn’t stay with them long enough, I should’ve helped them, he thinks in dizzying circles of guilt.
The loss of friends and colleagues is accompanied by a loss of track-Minho has spent far too much time away from family matters and when he returns to them he is left shell-shocked.
“He isn’t eating.” They speak in lowered tones from the kitchen. Their son is looking markedly leaner and the reason is a self-imposed chain of starvation. “Yeobo, he isn’t eating, why isn’t he eating?” Minho is shaken to his core but Gwiboon looks bizarrely unaffected as she continues to move around the kitchen.
“Maybe he doesn’t like my cooking,” she shrugs. “Or maybe he’s trying out a different diet.”
He wants to shake his wife by the shoulders but he resists. “He is five years old!” Minho exclaims in a hiss. “He doesn’t even know how to spell the word diet, how can he-do you not care at all that he’s lost so much weight in such a short amount of time?!” His voice nearly reaches a shout and everything in the house comes to a stand-still for a few seconds, like some sort of hard barrier has been breached. But then Gwiboon gives him another shrug before going back to her soap opera.
Indifference. He has noticed that particular characteristic in people, besides their obvious suicidal tendencies. He hadn’t put much weight to the thought, before. Because the indifference isn’t new. People don’t care about plane crash casualties or dead soldiers. They like to quote numbers and take pictures of the devastation but that is no proof of sensitivity. They like to wonder about mass murders but would sooner dismiss it as nothing more than sadistic indulgence. Tragedy has always been brushed aside with the simplest flick of self-important wrists. It can be let go of without a second spent in consideration.
But now this apathy has reached his doorstep and he cannot believe he didn’t notice the obvious progression.
“Gwiboon, this is our son we’re talking about!” he shouts. She frowns at him like he’s an annoyingly loud flea. It looks like a threat to his carefully constructed dream world. His safety is about to collapse. His happy family is actually rotting from the inside out and there seems to be nothing he can do to help resuscitate it.
------
“I can’t help on the case anymore, sir.”
Lieutenant Lee Taemin takes a long stable inhale before he begins his speech. “Your judgement is being clouded by family problems, Choi. Your… child. Is hospitalized, I heard? I can understan-”
“Can you?” Minho challenges. He wants to make a large mess of things around the office. He can feel the eyes of judgemental colleagues, whatever’s left of them, prick the back of his neck but the burn in his own eyes is too powerful. “I could lose my son,” he stutters. “I could lose my own flesh and blood, who I have no power to protect. Because of this… job!” he flings his hands up in the air, but the aimlessly fall back to his sides. It is easy to pin the blame on Taemin. To Minho, he is the very face of unconcern. He is the personification of everything that is wrong with their world.
“The worst pain is of a parent outliving their child,” he nearly sobs. “How can you understand?!” He looks away from the other man, who is calmly seated behind his desk and his paperwork. Minho tries to turn his face so his tears and emotions stay hidden. But the fact of the matter is, he wants the Lieutenant to see. He wants the man to acknowledge what loss looks like. “We had a choice,” Minho informs him. “Months ago, when I begged you to let me investigate independently, we had a choice to root this thing. Nip it in the bud. Had I built more spine in me, had I gone against your wishes, today we wouldn’t be having this conversation. My son wouldn’t have been lying on a hospital bed, connected to a ventilator, nearly in a coma because his body is rejecting life itself.”
“Are you saying this is my fault?” Taemin questions incredulously.
“Yes,” Minho informs him, gritting his teeth. “And it’s my fault, too. We’re both to blame. Don’t for a second think you aren’t at fault.” He considers it as good as a resignation letter and leaves the building amidst hushed whispers.
Taemin doesn’t try to stop him.
------
He can’t stop his thoughts in the waiting lounge of the hospital so he lets his feet carry him away.
They go on for miles without rest. He doesn’t listen to his mind, only lets his body control itself as it moves of its own accord. He is led through streets and along highways as if by a rope tied round his waist, tugging him forward. Details of life are missing. There are barely any cars on the streets and pedestrians are nowhere to be seen. This… ailment cannot be cured, of this Minho is sure. Shamans and doctors have put their hands up in defeat, forfeiting any kind of responsibility they may have held some months ago. The very fabric that holds Minho’s mind whole has given way. It is torn open so wide it can’t be sewn back shut. Logic eludes him despite being clearly in his view. Much like a mirage. The closer he gets to a solution, the faster it disappears.
He starts to lose track of time with every step and soon he wakes from his reverie with questions as to his whereabouts. All his questions are answered by a gong in the far distance.
Minho has never been a very religious man, but he has nowhere else to turn. Even when Pandora’s Box was opened for the first time the last thing that remained was hope. With the raw end of his hopeless deal, Minho has nothing to raise his arms in prayer to. But the temple stands before him like a gateway to unreachable wisdom. He sees no way around entering the premises.
He has been here before, a long time ago. But this isn’t how he remembers it. The temple, like everything else, looks abandoned. Sacredness, it seems, cannot escape the horrors of reality either, after all. No priests are seated in their usual chanting rows. No young monks-in-training are running around completing errands. Bells aren’t chiming, prayer halls aren’t ringing, incense isn’t burning. But there is that large gong, still swaying a little from the recent strike to its surface.
“Are you troubled, my child?” a priest smiles down at him from a balcony. His sandals clack on the wooden flooring as he makes his way down to the other.
Minho cranes his neck to look up at the man. “Sunim,” he begins. “Sunim, please help me. My son-he’s in a coma, he won’t wake up. He’s dying.” He reaches out to claw at the holy man’s robes. “We’re all dying, this whole planet is dying and there’s… there’s not real explanation to it. Please, help me. What should I do, tell me what to do, I-”
"Look at your hand," the priest points to Minho's shivering palms. His eyes aremain smiling, his presence continually radiates solemnness from its roots. "Look at them. Tell me how many life lines you see on them?"
Minho flips his hands upwards, staring at them intently. He doen't know what to look for. All he sees are lines and scabs. All he sees is blankness that stares back at him, mocking him for his incapability.
"We only have one life line each," the priest folds Minho’s hand, making it into a fist and shaking it between them. "Do you know why? Because we can only live once. We can only have one set of experiences, one set of responsibilities, one body for one soul. We can only catch hold of one thread. Not two, not five, not a thousand. Just one. No matter how badly we want to save others around us. How can you think that others' lives are in your hands, when only gods can create or preserve or destroy?"
------
Minho pushes his way through a door labelled “Kim Jonghyun”.
He sits on the rusty gurney, looking half-expectant and half-angry. A pair of leather straps hang undone from the headrest, and a matching pair of red welts line the man’s wrists. They probably had to subdue him after a violent outburst. Perhaps Minho should proceed with caution, perhaps he should maintain his distance. But there is a smidgen of helplessness in those big hazel eyes that look from him to the door. Stubby fingers grip the side of the bed tight enough to show white knuckles. “Are you a doctor?” a raspy voice asks.
Minho almost nods. He wants to see the other’s taut muscles ease up. But he also knows that before they begin walking down the road to recovery, he has to win the trust of this poor man. He doesn’t want to make himself into a hero, so he doesn’t assume that the entire human race depends on it. But he thinks, at least Kim Jonghyun does. So he shakes his head.
“My name is Choi Minho, and I’m here to help you live.”
Authors: hyeongsoap & quagmireisadora
Pairing: none
Rating: R
Warnings: suicide; graphic descriptions of suicide
Authors’ Notes: hyeongsoap- so i was asked to add some deep thoughts to the story. something deep and thoughtful would fit, wouldn't it? well here you have it, i think quagmireisadora is wonderful and gorgeous and wonderful and gorgeous people deserve pleasant weather, hot chocolate, lovely smiles and soft hugs.
quagmireisadora- this is a beautiful way for losers like me to meet new people but I am glad that I ended up with Soapy. We share a mental intimacy. Here's to 2020 Istanbul~
The sea is a constant roar of waves.
He keeps count of the number of times his foot crunches on sand and it feels like a crab has been crushed under his weight. He winces to each silent climb of the number--the world doesn't need any more death.
"Choi," Detective Lieutenant Lee Taemin's voice is clear of all emotion. He's always like that, on the job or off it. He's young: probably even younger than Minho himself. But his face is more lined than that of a man in his thirties. There are jokes flying around the office that the sleepless man probably bleeds decaf latte. Minho has always recanted opportunities to involve himself in such gossip. Tonight, however, Taemin looks even more stressed than usual, and it could have something to do with the two dark lumps lying sprawled at his feet.
By the light of three mercury LED torches he notices his superior beckon him forward. Minho rushes, forgetting the count in the back of his head.
"Two more. Double suicide means they must be lovers, but of course we can’t assume things,” there is the hint of a frustrated growl in the man’s voice. “Do your thing," Taemin orders.
Minho wastes no time in pulling out his bag of tools and flicking on a torch of his own. With a few minutes of investigation, and a silent prayer for the souls of the departed, he has no choice but to affirm what the detective already proclaimed. There is no surprise among the policemen. They don’t even groan about it anymore. Most of their cases are solved this way now. Educated guesswork is all it takes for them to get to the same conclusion every single time:
“Shot each other in the head, sir,” the report is unnecessary, really. But Minho still gives it. Just to make it official. “It was point blank, no chance of survival.”
“Let’s go home,” Taemin suggests without a glance over the shoulder. And just like that, the case is closed.
------
Going home is always the best.
Something smells delicious, like breakfast and packed lunches. He tiredly waddles into the living room and looks at the time, groaning as his body sinks into sofa cushions. The sun is up and the plants in their balcony are glistening with dew. Somewhere in the house, a shower is running and a child is yelling out the Keroro theme song. Minho grins--the kids are awake.
“Oh, you’re back?” Gwiboon calls to him from the kitchen.
He hums loudly in answer. Just the sound of her voice is enough to smooth out his tense muscles. She walks into sight, wiping her hands on an apron and reaching out to take hold of his cheeks. The bend forward and the peck to his lips is quick, but he appreciates it just the same. “I thought you’d--eugh you stink of seaweed!” she exclaims, making a fleetingly disgusted face. “I thought you’d woken up for something to drink but you were still gone in the morning. Another case?”
He nods in a childish way, pouting for effect. Gwiboon grins at him and coos affectionately. She sits on the armrest and strokes his head with affection. “Your hair’s going white from stress,” she notes before giving him a kiss on the temples. “At this rate you’ll be looking like a grandpa by forty… I don’t think I can stay married to an old man, you know?” she teases.
Minho whines and hides into the crook of her shoulder. Going home is the best because it isn’t touched by the horrors of the outside world. It’s still a lively, happy, safe place. It’s still brimming with goodness. He has seen the police tape criss-crossed outside cosy-looking homes--he’s been inside some, in fact. He’s seen what’s become of other families around the city. And though he doesn’t share it with his wife, perhaps she senses how it has shaken him up.
Gwiboon holds him in her arms for longer than usual.
------
Something has taken hold of the public’s minds.
The most basic forensic studies have yielded nothing that points to a biological defect. But that could only mean the problem is psychological. It could only mean that some kind of psychological leech is sucking out people’s will to live... Susceptibility has been thrown out the window and all epidemiological predictions have lost meaning. Old women and men who’ve led wholesome lives are stepping off building ledges. Young children who’ve barely seen anything of life are falling into depression. Mothers, sisters, uncles, cousins--everyone is dying. Of their own volition.
Minho carefully studies the graph even though the rise in figures is clearly apparent from many feet away--the number of suicides in this city is escalating too far, too rapidly.
He means to sit down with Taemin and talk about an in-depth autopsy. Perhaps citizens could be asked to volunteer as test subjects. Perhaps a small board of psychoanalysts could participate in the process and ask the right questions, prod the right nerves. He wants to get to the bottom of this issue and he wants the department’s support.
But he’s not sure how to start, or what words to use.
That is, until one of the officers shoots himself while on duty. One of the technicians from the third floor finds him in the elevator and calls it in. When Minho rushes over with the hope that he can still save a life, he ends up slipping in a pool of blood. Lieutenant Taemin snaps at him to stop getting in the way. A week of futile internal investigation follows, just out of courtesy to the fallen officer. But the outcome is the same as always. The family of the deceased is notified and a badge and holster are returned. The gun is sent to evidence.
“Sir, we need to talk about this,” Minho shakes his head one afternoon, standing in the middle of Taemin’s office. “We really need to talk about this. Whatever it is. It’s taking a toll on the whole nation.”
“Our job isn’t to keep civilians safe from themselves, Choi,” the man informs. A large pile of paperwork teeters on his desk. “We aren’t therapists to wait on the public and ask them how they feel about things.”
“Sir, what if…” Minho proposes. “What if this is being caused by external factors?”
“What do you mean?” A pair of hawk-like sharp eyes finally deigns it important to pay attention. “External factors like a... like a failed relationship?” Taemin scoffs. “My husband left me, my debt can’t be repaid, my farmland has gone barren, my relatives took the inheritance. This is the kind of shit we’ll be digging up. Are we supposed to cushion everyone’s fall, now?”
“Sir, there are too many victims for us to remain calm.”
------
The first victim had surfaced late in July.
It was a monsoon midnight. Minho still remembers the humidity, the temperature, the sound of police sirens and chattering paramedics. All the usual troops had gathered in what Taemin repeatedly refers to as the “ass end” of Seoul. Minho isn’t one to use such crass language. But from the amount of time and traffic he’d manoeuvred through to get there, he’d found himself silently agreeing.
The apartment block was, and still is, nothing more than a crude rectangular box with cardboard partitions to separate residents. The absolute scum of the city thrive there--on crime, on drugs, on the other side of the law. It’s widely accepted as the garbage disposal of humanity, the very last dregs of an old and rotting empire built on the backs of less fortunate souls. Every second man there is a junkie, every third woman a hooker. The place stinks of piss and infection.
Minho had cautiously tip-toed his way out of his car and into the building.
“Don’t take your sweet time, Choi, this isn’t ballet class. Hurry the fuck up,” Taemin’s growl had just started to dissolve into its current blasé drawl. Seeing death around you all day, every day, all the time has to get to you one way or another. Perhaps, Minho assumes, one way of coping is by erecting fifty metre high walls around yourself. Like the Lieutenant.
Minho hadn’t offered any excuses. The case was more important. He’d set up shop in a corner of the dingy room, firmly holding a handkerchief to his nose as he walked through the crime scene for the first time. “Female, name and age unknown, approximately thirty-four years old and living alone,” one of the policeman informed him. Blunt force, corner of that coffee table, possibly a knife or equally sharp object involved, he’d recited in his mind as his gaze roved along each and every bloodied surface.
When he stopped to take a look at the body he frowned. “No signs of struggle, sir.”
“Hmm,” Taemin had nodded enthusiastically, as if he’d come to the same conclusion minutes ago. They’d crouched together near the pool of blood soaking through lousy floorboards. “And when does something like that happen?”
When asked a question like that, Minho always makes a show of thinking for a minute. He doesn’t want his superior to get the impression that a mere forensic specialist is way ahead of him in the game. A man like Taemin? It’d definitely hurt his ego. “When the perp is someone the victim knows. But, sir…”
“Yes, exactly, but,” the other wagged his finger.
“Once the attack started, the vic would’ve at least put up some kind of fight in defence?” Minho had reasoned, pointing to a stained wall. “Like that particular splatter pattern suggests there was no struggle. At all! Right until the end! As if the woman wanted to be attacked. As if she was fine with being hit over the head till her skull caved in. How is that even… possible?”
------
The struggle exists. Only between political parties.
No matter how bad things get, no matter how many bodies fall, the opposition is hell-bent on reducing everything to a simple power struggle. “Clearly, external powers are responsible for these horrendous acts. And the fact that the current administration won’t lift a finger only proves that they are in cahoots!” the television sets proclaim in unison. These hollow complaints are usually followed by images of lost eyes, soundless mouths, unspoken mourns. They live within LED screens for now but they’ll be walking out aimlessly into the streets within no time. A fragile bubble of safety the secret police investigations have been trying to maintain is about to burst.
Minho and Gwiboon sit in the electronics store with their backs to rows and columns of speakers and remotes. The kids run to and fro playing on game console demos. They are supposed to be on a weekend vacation-away from work and stress. They are supposed to be building their own fifty meter walls for self-defence. And to an extent it works, as the rest of the world falls out of hope, out of grace; as everyone else falls hard, fast, till they hit the ground and burst into a thousand pieces that won’t regenerate to any form of life… Minho and his family are in their own sanctuary.
But the impression of blotting ink on case reports continues to flash before his eyes. He blinks it away repeatedly, and it resumes its violation of his mind repeatedly. From the several sleepless hours he has spent in the office he knows that this isn’t like a biological pandemic, easy to cure and contain. Germs can be killed, viruses can be fought. Medicines and antibiotics can break the spell of sickness. Yet, no one is immune to the mind.
Two days ago a train left Seoul station at four in the afternoon, only to be found eight hours later, derailed near the east coast, just near Ulsan. Many were killed, many more injured lethally, and the rest were lost without a trace. Nobody knows what happened, and the one woman with any semblance of sanity was promptly brought in for questioning. But there hadn’t been any traces of panic in her features. “I woke up at night time. There were bodies everywhere. Some of them were waking up, like they’d just been sleeping on the ground. No one was screaming. It didn’t… didn’t make sense.” Minho had considered reaching out for her hand but she hadn’t seemed to need consolations.
“They got up and walked away. As if nothing had happened and they were perfectly alright.”
Minho likes to think he is privy to all the exclusive exits out of this situation, all clearly marked with rationality. If the noose ever starts to tighten around his own neck, he likes to think that with a single blink he will find his sagacity and make his way back into the safe arms of Gwiboon while the kids run and laugh animatedly. He can go back to his reinforced asylum if things really slip off to the unconceivable. But he knows that dreaming of rainbows in the darkness leads nowhere.
Humankind will wipe itself clean off the face of this planet, spraying it with insecticide for good measure.
------
The face of this planet is changing. Humankind is slowly but surely fading into small pockets of stragglers who still contemplate poison against pistol. It is being CNNed and NPRed and BBCed. Time ticks away in Minho’s watch and so does the will to live in the people around him. Within a month the forensics department has shrunk to the size of two handfuls of barely-there human lives. Soon they will also disappear, leaving only one man behind.
He looks in the direction of Taemin’s office. The blinds are drawn. Any and all conversations have already come to a full stop with that sign of reticence.
He looks at faces that have lost sons, daughters, mothers, wives. He looks at faces that have given up. And he tries his hardest to sit them down and think with some clarity. Minho gives it his all to talk sense into anyone willing to listen and accept his advice. But it feels counter-productive every time he has to visit a crime site, only to find another familiar face with its stomach ripped open or lying in a pool of its own vomit. These faces and their ends are branded into the backs of his eyelids because he very nearly blames himself for every death. I didn’t try hard enough, I didn’t stay with them long enough, I should’ve helped them, he thinks in dizzying circles of guilt.
The loss of friends and colleagues is accompanied by a loss of track-Minho has spent far too much time away from family matters and when he returns to them he is left shell-shocked.
“He isn’t eating.” They speak in lowered tones from the kitchen. Their son is looking markedly leaner and the reason is a self-imposed chain of starvation. “Yeobo, he isn’t eating, why isn’t he eating?” Minho is shaken to his core but Gwiboon looks bizarrely unaffected as she continues to move around the kitchen.
“Maybe he doesn’t like my cooking,” she shrugs. “Or maybe he’s trying out a different diet.”
He wants to shake his wife by the shoulders but he resists. “He is five years old!” Minho exclaims in a hiss. “He doesn’t even know how to spell the word diet, how can he-do you not care at all that he’s lost so much weight in such a short amount of time?!” His voice nearly reaches a shout and everything in the house comes to a stand-still for a few seconds, like some sort of hard barrier has been breached. But then Gwiboon gives him another shrug before going back to her soap opera.
Indifference. He has noticed that particular characteristic in people, besides their obvious suicidal tendencies. He hadn’t put much weight to the thought, before. Because the indifference isn’t new. People don’t care about plane crash casualties or dead soldiers. They like to quote numbers and take pictures of the devastation but that is no proof of sensitivity. They like to wonder about mass murders but would sooner dismiss it as nothing more than sadistic indulgence. Tragedy has always been brushed aside with the simplest flick of self-important wrists. It can be let go of without a second spent in consideration.
But now this apathy has reached his doorstep and he cannot believe he didn’t notice the obvious progression.
“Gwiboon, this is our son we’re talking about!” he shouts. She frowns at him like he’s an annoyingly loud flea. It looks like a threat to his carefully constructed dream world. His safety is about to collapse. His happy family is actually rotting from the inside out and there seems to be nothing he can do to help resuscitate it.
------
“I can’t help on the case anymore, sir.”
Lieutenant Lee Taemin takes a long stable inhale before he begins his speech. “Your judgement is being clouded by family problems, Choi. Your… child. Is hospitalized, I heard? I can understan-”
“Can you?” Minho challenges. He wants to make a large mess of things around the office. He can feel the eyes of judgemental colleagues, whatever’s left of them, prick the back of his neck but the burn in his own eyes is too powerful. “I could lose my son,” he stutters. “I could lose my own flesh and blood, who I have no power to protect. Because of this… job!” he flings his hands up in the air, but the aimlessly fall back to his sides. It is easy to pin the blame on Taemin. To Minho, he is the very face of unconcern. He is the personification of everything that is wrong with their world.
“The worst pain is of a parent outliving their child,” he nearly sobs. “How can you understand?!” He looks away from the other man, who is calmly seated behind his desk and his paperwork. Minho tries to turn his face so his tears and emotions stay hidden. But the fact of the matter is, he wants the Lieutenant to see. He wants the man to acknowledge what loss looks like. “We had a choice,” Minho informs him. “Months ago, when I begged you to let me investigate independently, we had a choice to root this thing. Nip it in the bud. Had I built more spine in me, had I gone against your wishes, today we wouldn’t be having this conversation. My son wouldn’t have been lying on a hospital bed, connected to a ventilator, nearly in a coma because his body is rejecting life itself.”
“Are you saying this is my fault?” Taemin questions incredulously.
“Yes,” Minho informs him, gritting his teeth. “And it’s my fault, too. We’re both to blame. Don’t for a second think you aren’t at fault.” He considers it as good as a resignation letter and leaves the building amidst hushed whispers.
Taemin doesn’t try to stop him.
------
He can’t stop his thoughts in the waiting lounge of the hospital so he lets his feet carry him away.
They go on for miles without rest. He doesn’t listen to his mind, only lets his body control itself as it moves of its own accord. He is led through streets and along highways as if by a rope tied round his waist, tugging him forward. Details of life are missing. There are barely any cars on the streets and pedestrians are nowhere to be seen. This… ailment cannot be cured, of this Minho is sure. Shamans and doctors have put their hands up in defeat, forfeiting any kind of responsibility they may have held some months ago. The very fabric that holds Minho’s mind whole has given way. It is torn open so wide it can’t be sewn back shut. Logic eludes him despite being clearly in his view. Much like a mirage. The closer he gets to a solution, the faster it disappears.
He starts to lose track of time with every step and soon he wakes from his reverie with questions as to his whereabouts. All his questions are answered by a gong in the far distance.
Minho has never been a very religious man, but he has nowhere else to turn. Even when Pandora’s Box was opened for the first time the last thing that remained was hope. With the raw end of his hopeless deal, Minho has nothing to raise his arms in prayer to. But the temple stands before him like a gateway to unreachable wisdom. He sees no way around entering the premises.
He has been here before, a long time ago. But this isn’t how he remembers it. The temple, like everything else, looks abandoned. Sacredness, it seems, cannot escape the horrors of reality either, after all. No priests are seated in their usual chanting rows. No young monks-in-training are running around completing errands. Bells aren’t chiming, prayer halls aren’t ringing, incense isn’t burning. But there is that large gong, still swaying a little from the recent strike to its surface.
“Are you troubled, my child?” a priest smiles down at him from a balcony. His sandals clack on the wooden flooring as he makes his way down to the other.
Minho cranes his neck to look up at the man. “Sunim,” he begins. “Sunim, please help me. My son-he’s in a coma, he won’t wake up. He’s dying.” He reaches out to claw at the holy man’s robes. “We’re all dying, this whole planet is dying and there’s… there’s not real explanation to it. Please, help me. What should I do, tell me what to do, I-”
"Look at your hand," the priest points to Minho's shivering palms. His eyes aremain smiling, his presence continually radiates solemnness from its roots. "Look at them. Tell me how many life lines you see on them?"
Minho flips his hands upwards, staring at them intently. He doen't know what to look for. All he sees are lines and scabs. All he sees is blankness that stares back at him, mocking him for his incapability.
"We only have one life line each," the priest folds Minho’s hand, making it into a fist and shaking it between them. "Do you know why? Because we can only live once. We can only have one set of experiences, one set of responsibilities, one body for one soul. We can only catch hold of one thread. Not two, not five, not a thousand. Just one. No matter how badly we want to save others around us. How can you think that others' lives are in your hands, when only gods can create or preserve or destroy?"
------
Minho pushes his way through a door labelled “Kim Jonghyun”.
He sits on the rusty gurney, looking half-expectant and half-angry. A pair of leather straps hang undone from the headrest, and a matching pair of red welts line the man’s wrists. They probably had to subdue him after a violent outburst. Perhaps Minho should proceed with caution, perhaps he should maintain his distance. But there is a smidgen of helplessness in those big hazel eyes that look from him to the door. Stubby fingers grip the side of the bed tight enough to show white knuckles. “Are you a doctor?” a raspy voice asks.
Minho almost nods. He wants to see the other’s taut muscles ease up. But he also knows that before they begin walking down the road to recovery, he has to win the trust of this poor man. He doesn’t want to make himself into a hero, so he doesn’t assume that the entire human race depends on it. But he thinks, at least Kim Jonghyun does. So he shakes his head.
“My name is Choi Minho, and I’m here to help you live.”